Philomena's Miracle. Бетти Нилс

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      There was no one to meet her at Wareham station, although she had telephoned the day before to say that she was coming, so she took a taxi to the charming Georgian house by the river. There was no one home, only Molly, the housekeeper, who had been with them for such a long time that Philomena couldn’t remember life without her. She came from the kitchen as she went in, wiping her hands on a towel, her nice wrinkled face beaming with pleasure.

      ‘Miss Philly, how lovely to see you—the Missus and Miss Chloe and Miss Miriam have gone over to Bournemouth to get something or other—they said you wouldn’t mind getting yourself here. They’ll be back by teatime.’ She glanced at Philomena’s disappointed face. ‘So you’ve passed those exams of yours, you clever girl. How proud your dad would have been of you—just as I am, Miss Philly.’ She took the bag from Philomena’s hand. ‘I’ve a nice little lunch all ready for you—you just come into the kitchen and eat it, there’s a good girl.’

      It was a very nice lunch and Molly was interested in her hospital life; she stood at the other end of the big kitchen table, making pastry and plying Philomena with questions, so that very shortly Philomena began to feel a good deal more cheerful, and presently, when she had unpacked in her pretty bedroom overlooking the river, she went downstairs and strolled through the garden to the water’s edge until Molly called her in for tea, and soon after that her stepmother and sisters came home. They embraced her warmly, all talking at once about the party, and swept her upstairs to admire their dresses, and it wasn’t until they were going to their rooms to tidy themselves for dinner that her stepmother observed carelessly: ‘Did you pass your exams, Philly? I do hope so—so boring for you, darling, I can’t think why you want to stay at that horrid hospital. Which reminds me, Nicholas Pierce and his wife have asked us all to lunch tomorrow—so convenient, because we shall have enough to do with the party without feeding ourselves. We’re to meet them at the Priory Hotel at half past twelve. I hope you’ve got something smart to wear?’

      ‘My suit—there’s that silk blouse I left at home—I could wear that with it…no hat.’

      Her stepmother glanced at Philomena’s neat head of hair. ‘No? Well, dear, I don’t suppose it makes much difference. The suit’s all right.’ She smiled, already thinking about something else. ‘See you downstairs, Philly.’

      The evening passed quickly. There were last-minute plans to make, local gossip to mull over, the question as to whether Chloe should have her curly dark hair dressed in a different style discussed at length. They were on their way to bed when her stepmother remembered to ask Philomena again: ‘Did you pass, darling? Not that it matters I expect.’

      Philomena paused on the stairs. ‘Yes, Mother, I passed.’ She didn’t add that it had mattered very much.

      ‘I suppose everyone celebrated?’ asked Chloe.

      ‘Yes,’ said Philomena, ‘it’s customary.’

      ‘How nice,’ remarked Mrs Parsons a little vaguely. ‘I expect you have lots of friends. No one special, I suppose?’

      Philomena had a sudden vivid memory of a large, fair man with kind blue eyes. She said, ‘No,’ feeling regret as she said it.

      She was up early; it had tacitly been agreed for some time now that as she rose early at the hospital, she should do the same at home, and while her stepmother and sisters had trays taken to their rooms by a hard-working Molly, she had formed the habit of eating her own breakfast with the housekeeper in the kitchen. And Molly, who found this unfair, made it up to her by dishing up a splendid meal of eggs and bacon, marmalade and toast and all the coffee she cared to drink, besides which she saw to it that Philomena had a newspaper to read while she ate. Usually she didn’t have much to say, but this morning, with the party looming, they talked. Miriam had a new boy-friend, a young man whom Molly described severely as nothing but a playboy: ‘Loaded with money,’ she added with a snort, ‘and spends it all on himself.’ She sniffed with disapproval. ‘Them as ’as money should know how to use it.’ She slapped the toast rack down with something of a thump. ‘Miss Miriam’s fair set on ’im—and so’s yer ma.’ She poured more coffee for Philomena. ‘And Miss Chloe, eighteen today, and just thrown over another young man—she’s begun too early if you ask me.’

      Philomena buttered more toast and spread it with Molly’s homemade marmalade. ‘Well, you know, girls seem to grow up more quickly nowadays,’ she observed with all the wisdom of twenty-three years, ‘and perhaps this boy-friend of Miriam’s really loves her—after all, if he’s all that rich he’s got to lavish his money on someone other than himself.’

      The housekeeper regarded her with loving scorn. ‘The trouble is with you, Miss Philly, you’re too nice—just like yer own ma—she weren’t no beauty, just like you, but nice enough to eat.’

      And Philomena, recognising this as a great compliment from one who seldom uttered them, thanked her, adding a hug and a kiss on an elderly cheek by way of extras.

      She spent the morning arranging the flowers, because she was good at it and as her stepmother pointed out, it was such a waste of money to employ someone to do it when Philly was so conveniently home, and then there were last-minute errands to run, the telephone to answer, and the buffet supper, a labour of love on Molly’s part, to check. The drinks Mrs Parsons had left to Mr Pierce; he would bring them round after they had all lunched at the Priory. ‘And for heaven’s sake hurry up and get dressed,’ begged Mrs Parsons, quite unmindful that until that moment Philly hadn’t had a moment to herself. ‘I want you to go on ahead, darling, and pop into Mr Timms’ and make sure he sends the icecream.’ She added: ‘We’ll meet you at the hotel.’

      So Philomena dressed, far too quickly so that her face had less attention than usual and her hair was screwed back in a rather careless knot, and hurried round to Mr Timms’, who was inclined to be hurt at the very idea of Mrs Parsons thinking that he might forget such an important order. Philomena said all she should have and, with time to spare, went straight to the hotel.

      The Pierces weren’t there yet, of course; Mr Gee, the owner, met her in the entrance and when they had passed the time of day, suggested that she might like to stroll through the gardens and take a look at the river. So she did that, wandering round the side of the lovely old building, with its small arched doorways and courtyards and coming eventually to the gardens. It was a bright day with a blue sky from which the sun shone without much warmth, and the gardens looked beautiful; tulips and late daffodils and hyacinths jostled for a place among the shrubs. Philomena took the narrow path which bordered the grounds and came to the river. There were no boats out, it was too early in the year still, but the swans were gliding along the further bank and the water looked clear and very clean. She was contemplating the scene when Doctor van der Tacx said ‘Hullo,’ from somewhere behind her and she spun round, green eyes wide in a plain face rendered more plain than it need have been by reason of the chilly little wind coming off the water. ‘It’s you!’ she exclaimed idiotically, and failed to see the amused gleam in his eyes.

      ‘In person.’ He went on smoothly: ‘Some friends told me what a very pleasant place this was for a few days’ peace and quiet; I arrived only a few minutes ago and happened to see you crossing the garden.’ His smile was charming and she found herself smiling back at him. ‘Of course, you live here…’

      She nodded. ‘Yes—just down the river a little way—we’re here for lunch with friends of my stepmother’s.’ She glanced at her watch and felt reluctance to go. ‘They’ll be here—I came on early, I had a message to deliver.’

      He turned away from the river. ‘We’ll walk back together. Have you a long holiday?’

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